


Happily Ever After

by November Snowflake (novembersnow)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-24
Updated: 2012-04-24
Packaged: 2017-11-04 05:40:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/390371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novembersnow/pseuds/November%20Snowflake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The truth behind Harry and Ginny's fairy-tale romance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happily Ever After

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted June 18, 2003.

The _Daily Prophet_ proclaimed it the love match of the age.

HARRY POTTER WEDS CHILDHOOD SWEETHEART, the headline read, accompanied by photos of a smiling Harry and glowing Ginny, touching hands, exchanging yearning glances, looking for all the world like two kids helplessly in love. Everyone at the wedding rejoiced in how happy the couple was.

And if anyone noticed that the enchanted bride and groom figures atop the cake stood with their backs coldly to one another, nobody remarked on it.

*

Life is peaceful at the new Potter bungalow in Godric's Hollow. Harry works occasionally on projects for the Ministry, but he is semi-retired after his defeat of Voldemort at the long, bloody Battle of Hogwarts cemented him once and for all as a hero in the eyes of the wizarding world. Ginny works as a teacher at the local wizarding preschool, and responds with blushes and shy smiles whenever anyone asks when she and Harry might expect a tiny witch or wizard of their own.

Harry wonders sometimes whether their future children might have red hair. Draco Malfoy taunted him once or twice about Harry's Oedipus complex and his secret desire to raise a brood of Weasley Red-haired brats.

But perhaps it's better not to think on that. Malfoy died in the second wave of the war, cursing Harry's name, the Dark Mark on his arm no uglier than the contorted expression on his face. There are far too many such memories that keep Harry awake at night.

*

Ginny never wears heels when she and Harry go out together, even though Harry has said repeatedly that it doesn't bother him that Ginny is taller than he is. But her mother harped on the fact so many times that Ginny is forever conscious of it, even if Harry is not.

Ginny outpaced Harry in height by the time she was 15. She is long and lanky with no breasts to speak of, and she knows this appeals to Harry on some level, even if most of the other boys at Hogwarts found her too flat-chested (and too well-protected by legendary older brothers) to notice.

She made the Gryffindor Quidditch team as a Chaser in her fifth year, then replaced Harry as Seeker when he quit the team the following year, too wrapped up in his work with the Order to have adequate time to devote to the game. She loved the thrill of the position, but it was somehow bittersweet.

The first time Harry fucked her was after a Quidditch game. She was still in her uniform, leather guards and all, smelling like sweat and air and dirt from when she had crashed to the pitch after narrowly nipping the Snitch ahead of Draco Malfoy.

Harry had pulled her into the broom shed and locked the door, hands rough against her in the dark. She panted both from exertion and arousal as he jerked down her standard-issue Quidditch trousers and slid a finger inside her. She grabbed him by the neck of his robes and pulled him forward, smashing her mouth against his, almost devouring him as her other hand skillfully sought his cock, already hard beneath his robes and trousers. He growled and abruptly spun her around so that her face pressed against the shed wall, and grabbed her hips.

When he thrust into her for the first time, she let out such a cry that he clamped one hand over her mouth, shoving himself frantically into her even as she moaned against his palm and sank her teeth into his hand in an effort to control her urge to scream. It was rough and fast, and she was afraid she'd have splinters in her fingers and bruises on her hips and thighs.

Finally she felt him freeze, then jerk against her for a few moments, letting out his own low groan and almost collapsing against her, and she sighed. When he pulled away, she could feel the trickle of his semen on the inside of her thigh. Turning, she wiped at it with the hem of Harry's robes before hitching up her trousers.

In the darkness, she couldn't see his face, but there were nerves in his voice as he said, "I'm sorry—I didn't mean to—"

She cut him off. "It's all right. There are charms."

"Oh," he said. Then, "You weren't a—"

"No," she said, and they left it at that.

*

Ron and Hermione come over sometimes for dinner. It's so much easier now that Harry and Ginny are married, Hermione confides to Ginny. It balances things out. And it's so good to see Harry happy at last, she says, casting a worried look over her shoulder to where Ron and Harry are boisterously recounting last weekend's Cannons match.

Yes, Ginny agrees, smiling a little, it is.

Afterward they always retire to the small sitting room, even though Harry's study is larger and has a fireplace. There are leather armchairs in there, and the walls are lined with the collection of books Harry inherited from his parents by way of Sirius. It always smells vaguely musty, like old parchment and moldering bindings.

Ginny never sets foot in there.

When they first moved in and unpacked their things, Ginny cheerfully tore into whatever box she came across, delighting in putting the house— _their_ house—to order. Harry had done a poor job of labeling his half of the boxes, and they never knew when they would uncover toiletries or bedding or his (meager) selection of kitchen utensils. But when she opened one particular box, she began to scream, long, shrill banners of sound that carried to where Harry was assembling the bed frame in their room. He came running to find her frozen with horror over a box of old books with tattered covers. Scrambling, he shut the box and pushed it away, gathering her in his arms even as she continued to scream. All at once she stopped, staring at him, wild-eyed.

The next thing he knew, he was flat on his back in the hallway and Ginny was grappling with his belt, tearing at his fly. He groaned as she sank down onto him, riding hard and fast, eyes closed, mouth hanging open, completely oblivious to everything but the sensation of his cock within her. And when she came, it was with a sharp gasp and a whisper that made Harry freeze.

"Tom," she hissed.

*

Later he asked, "Why did you say that?"

She looked up blankly from her copy of _Witch Weekly_. "What?"

"Why did you say that earlier?"

"What did I say when?"

He fidgeted. "At the end of…you know. In the hall this afternoon."

"Oh." She blushed. "Did I say something?"

"I…yeah." Her gaze was curious, brow slightly furrowed in thought. "You don't remember? Not at all?"

She shook her head, still blushing. "Was it embarrassing?"

"No," he said, turning away. "No, it wasn't embarrassing."

"Come on, Harry." She tossed the magazine aside and curled her feet under her. "What did I say? Was it really as bad as all that?"

He turned to look at her again, and her expression was wide and genuinely innocent. He sighed. "It was nothing, Gin. Really."

She rose to her feet and walked across the room to drop onto his lap. He made a small oof of surprise, but laughed a little when she bussed his neck loudly. "Are you sure it's all right?" she murmured into his ear.

He briefly contemplated a response, but instead just closed his lips over hers.

*

It has been less than a year since the conclusion of the war, and the _Prophet_ still runs memorials nearly every day for wizards or witches who died over the course of the conflict. Today there is a small remembrance for Cho Chang, who was found dead at Hogwarts in her seventh year. It was a simple case of _Avada Kedavra_ , according to the mediwizards who performed the post-mortem, but the spell was cast using her own wand. The case was officially ruled a suicide, and some remembered her paralyzing grief over Cedric's death. But most who knew her well never believed she'd killed herself, though a culprit was never found.

Harry sighs when he sees her photograph in the paper over breakfast. In it she is still seventeen, pretty and bright-eyed, flashing a coy smile. He remembers watching her fly over the Quidditch pitch, small and lissome, distracting him with a flip of her dark hair, a glimmer in her dark eyes.

Across the table, Ginny watches the sadness and nostalgia blossom in his face and her hand reaches to touch his. He looks up, grateful, and smiles at her, thinking it an odd—but blessed—quirk that he has loved and desired only Quidditch Seekers. His fingers stroke hers.

When he puts the paper down next to his coffee mug, she sees what made him look so sad, and her expression tightens, then relaxes. No use fretting over dead rivals now. Still, it's a pity the girl had to die so young, she thinks idly as she washes the dishes. But who can truly understand the consequences of grief?

*

Harry has gotten used to nightmares. Sometimes he dreams of Voldemort, but more often it is the faces of his friends: suffering…accusatory…dead.

Cho Chang, her face frozen in a grimace of shock.

George Weasley, found murdered in the back room of the twins' joke shop, tortured and scalped.

Oliver Wood, his corpse burned almost beyond recognition.

Severus Snape, body contorted from weeks of enduring the Cruciatus Curse at Voldemort's hands, his lips bitten clean through from the effort to keep from screaming.

Draco Malfoy, laughing almost to the end, serene in his confidence that Harry Potter would not—could not—possibly kill him. It was only at the last moment he'd reacted, the grin turning ugly, his face frozen in its expression of dawning horror, his lips a sneer around Harry's name.

He dreams about Malfoy quite a lot, actually, and not always about his death. He dreams of flying with him through an empty sky, competition like a drug singing through his bloodstream, the wind a shrill whine in his ears. Malfoy, laughing at him.

Always laughing.

There are other images too. Malfoy, sneering at him across the Great Hall, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle. Malfoy jostling his elbow in Potions when they were partnered on yet another project, causing Harry's knife to slip and slash his hand (he still has a scar). Malfoy, grabbing him after a Gryffindor-Slytherin Quidditch game their seventh year, when Harry hadn't even been a player anymore.

"What are you doing?" Harry had demanded, impatient to find Ginny and congratulate her on her success.

Malfoy growled at him and pulled him under the stands, slamming Harry's back against a pole. "What—" Harry choked.

Malfoy's face was an inch from his, his eyes burning into Harry's. "I hate you," he said, and kissed him.

It took Harry a moment to register surprise, then alarm, at the fact that Malfoy's tongue was in his mouth, and Malfoy's hand was under his robes and—oh! He pushed Malfoy away, panting, horrified. "What are you _doing_?"

Malfoy surveyed him with cool eyes, a gut-twisting contrast to his wet, reddened lips. "Oh, don't act like you don't want it, Potter."

"What—I don't—"

Malfoy stepped close again, his breath fanning across Harry's flushed, indignant face, and all Harry could smell was sweat and leather. "I know you watch me," he said, his voice a low purr as Harry's breathing hitched with nerves. "You watch me in class, in the Hall, on the pitch. You used to watch me in the showers. Is that why you really quit the team, little Gryffindor?" he murmured, nose in Harry's hair, lips feathering across his ear. "Couldn't stand the excitement any longer?"

Harry gasped. "You—I never—"

"Oh, don't bother denying it, Potter. I know you watch me. Just like I know—" his hand snaked between Harry's legs, and Harry groaned "—you're hard right now."

"It's not you—"

Malfoy pressed his body against Harry's, rocking his own erection into the other boy's hip. "Of course not," he laughed softly. "It's never me. Just like I'm sure it's that gangly Weasel girl who gives you sticky dreams at night."

"Ginny's—"

"Bet you've never fucked her, have you, Potter?" His tongue swept inside Harry's ear. "Bet you can't even get hard for her."

"Ginny's not that kind of girl," Harry spat, shoving at Malfoy again.

This time Malfoy stepped back, knocking Harry off balance so that he dropped to his knees in the dirt, Malfoy's distended Quidditch trousers at eye level. Malfoy laughed. "Think what you want, Potter. Some of us don't have time for delusions." He kicked a cloud of dust in Harry's face, making him cough and choke. "You'll be sorry someday," he said, and his voice had turned so inexplicably solemn, Harry looked up through his reddened, burning eyes. Malfoy's face was twisted in a sneer of derision, but somehow it contained an element of self-mockery. "You'll be sorry, Potter," he repeated quietly. "Nothing is ever as simple as you think it is." With a swirl of his Quidditch robes, he was gone.

Harry pulled himself to his feet, dusting off his knees before emerging carefully from below the stands. Spotting Ginny just at the corner of the broom shed, he ran to catch up.

*

Then there was the time he woke from a nightmare to find that something was very clearly wrong.

It had to have been a nightmare—a horror of white skin and long bones, platinum hair and gray eyes filled with smoke and malice. Sweat and luxurious sheets and the desperate grind of his cock against another's. Finally, sliding into heat, hips thudding against a firm, muscular backside, his hand grasping and tugging at another man's cock, jerking him against the mattress. Syncopated moans, then unison as the rhythm caught, hard, fast, blinding. He passed out when he came, the low gasp of "Potter" expelled in his ear.

Then he became aware of a wriggling beneath him, a strangled scream followed by low whispers of, "Harry…Harry." He blinked himself awake to find he was sprawled over Ginny's back, pressing her into the mattress as her tears dampened the pillow. His cock was…oh, God.

"Ginny," he said, his breath gone. "Ginny, I'm sorry." He withdrew carefully, wincing, and she cried more at the feel of suction on torn flesh. "I'm so sorry," he gasped, sickened at the sight of blood against her milk-white skin, the feel of it slick and stinging on his cock.

She whimpered a little as she turned to catch his whitened face between her palms. "Don't," she said, kissing the tears that appeared on his cheeks even as her own ran unchecked. "It's all right," she murmured, stroking his sweat-dampened hair back from his forehead as she reached for her wand. "It'll be fine. It was just…dry…is all."

He blinked at her.

She murmured a quick healing spell, then sighed as she closed her eyes and settled back into her pillow, her fingers still idly threading through his hair. "Next time," she said, yawning, "use lube."

He eventually began to drift to sleep in spite of his shaken nerves, only to feel Ginny's lips moving against his chest. "You speak in Parseltongue when you fuck me in your sleep, you know."

His eyes flew open. "I what?"

She laughed a little and rolled her hips against him. "Mm. Sexy."

"What do I say?" he asked, afraid of the answer.

She yawned again. "How would I know?" she murmured sleepily. "I don't speak Parseltongue. It sounded sort of like this." She made a breathy hissing sound, and promptly fell asleep.

Harry lay awake, wondering why Ginny had mumbled the word "faith."

*

Ginny dreams too sometimes, though she can't always remember them when she wakes. Harry has told her that there are times when she whimpers or cries or even screams in her sleep. This she doesn't remember. But she believes him because she has awakened to dried tear tracks or a sore, hoarse throat. She's discovered bruises from sleepwalking and even inflicted bruises on Harry as she flailed in her sleep. Once she nearly broke his nose. Neither of them has suggested pursuing a magicounselor, however. That is something for other people. Besides, Ginny's not certain she wants to know what she dreams about.

Harry isn't always a witness to her actions when the dreams overtake her, and she doesn't always tell him when there's been another episode. Some things are just better kept to herself.

Like the time she awoke in the kitchen, her hands full of knives.

Like the fact that she's repeatedly awakened to find old, leather-bound books beneath her pillow, filled with handwriting not her own on pages she rips out and burns in daylight.

Or like the time she found herself on the floor of Harry's study, her body covered in red ink. "Beware," her skin read, over and over. "Beware beware beware." She spent half an hour in the shower, painstakingly scrubbing every letter off her body, until her skin glowed pink and raw and she could hardly breathe for the steam.

When Harry reached around her in the kitchen that morning to snag a cup of coffee off the counter, he inhaled deeply and pressed a kiss to the side of her neck. "Mm," he murmured. "You smell like flowers."

Her smile was sunny. "It's all for you, darling."

*

Ginny doesn't keep a diary, and hasn't since she was twelve years old. Too much trouble, she says. Too much potential for trouble.

To illustrate, she points to the front page of today's _Daily Prophet_. Ever since the end of the war, the newspaper has boosted its circulation by running lurid exposes about dead or imprisoned Death Eaters. A war-scarred wizarding populace takes perverse comfort in the thought that Death Eaters were just as fucked up in their private lives as they were in their activities in Voldemort's service.

Ginny's fingernail taps against a photo of Draco Malfoy, pale and sneering as he ever was in life, and Harry stares back calmly as the photographic image waggles its eyebrows lasciviously at him. Harry's gaze drifts to the headline: DEATH EATER MALFOY'S SECRET DESIRES EXPOSED! He shrugs at first, but his shoulders tense a little when he catches sight of his own name.

Somehow a reporter has laid hold of Malfoy's personal journal from his last two years at Hogwarts. Harry frowns and wonders who will be fired for that breach—all confirmed Death Eaters' possessions were confiscated by the Ministry after the war and sealed deep in the Ministry's vaults. By all rights, Malfoy's diary should be there as well, not splashed across the front page. Harry knows he should refuse to read such tripe, but his eye is drawn irresistibly.

"I hate Potter," says one excerpt.

Farther down the page, "I want Potter. I don't want to want him."

Toward the end, the tone changes yet again. "Why do I love Harry Potter?" The date given is only weeks before his death.

Ginny looks at Harry speculatively, but he just sighs. It's all a little sad, really. All that wasted emotion. Who knew Malfoy could feel at all?

Her hand creeps into his, and Harry squeezes it, his gaze back on the photograph of Malfoy, which is somehow both blushing and scowling. Harry leans closer, and the figure draws back, looking almost wary. No, the mouth says, the word easily read. Stay away from me. I hate you. Malfoy's eyes close. I love you.

Harry stands in a patch of morning sunlight and rubs Ginny's fingers, frowning.

*

At the wedding feast, Harry had lifted his champagne flute in toast to his bride. "To Ginny," he said, and everyone fell silent, as people were wont to do for the Boy Who Lived, "my love and my life. We were destined for each other from the moment we met on Platform 9 ¾." Everyone smiled, recalling the sweet story of how they'd met, he the bewildered, unlikely hero, she the shy little sister. She lowered her lashes, blushing at the memory of her star-struck infatuation. When she raised her eyes again, Harry was gazing at her and smiling, his eyes warm but curiously blank. "We've been through so much together," he said quietly, "and now that the war is over and all that hell is behind us, it's time for us to have the fairy tale ending we've waited for."

She looked up into his famous green eyes and her mind spun with half-remembered Muggle stories of children devoured by animals and princes raping princesses and witches dancing to death in white-hot shoes. But she only smiled and reached to clasp his hand, to the sound of thunderous applause.


End file.
